ODST: Team Two
by dozy-joe-2000
Summary: Only one ODST squad is chronicled in HALO 3-ODST. This is the story of ODST Team Two, dropped in for a reason equally mysterious to them. Lame summary,but suitably bullet-filled to make up for it. Rated for violence and language. Please Read and Review...
1. Chapter 1

**ODST: Team Two**

**Chapter One – Insertion**

Space seen like this was a rush of noise and colour and light, the shining stars and the velvet blue-black in which they were cushioned, the passing hulls of gunmetal-grey UNSC warships looming and then disappearing, looming, and then disappearing; the beep of the various instruments within PFC Larue's HEV. The plexiglass window set in the HEV's front was a blur of rushing…_everything_. His hands, clad in fingerless gloves, gripped the twin control sticks at his left and right white-knuckle tight, though there was no way he could control it yet. As he hurtled downwards his grey eyes began fixated down between his feet, trying to focus on something to fight down the incredible sense of nausea. He fought harder to keep his stomach on the inside than he had on the Orbital Platform only hours before.

The plexiglass window in front of his feet was filled with the form of the enormous Covenant Assault Carrier that had settled in above the city of New Mombasa and had begun the attack on the city. Its great purple-white hull was partially hidden by cloud-cover, but it was worryingly large considering the incredible distance between him and it, though admittedly it was closing incredibly fast. He realised he was holding his breath – he was waiting for the impact with the atmosphere. He didn't release it. The Earth climbed towards him, growing vaster and vaster and then…

He hit the atmosphere, the HEV screaming as it superheated, the continents and the oceans and more importantly the Carrier, disappearing as he pushed clean through, the metal cooling in the water vapour and steam exploding from the hull, choking off his vision, obscuring the plexiglass. He wretched, almost vomiting inside his helmet. Not a smart move. He swallowed, and felt the G-forces rip at him, nearly pulling the damn helmet off. It tore at his body-armour and BDUs. He came out the other side of the clouds, the wind snatching the steam away, the hissing-sound going. The Carrier still hung, motionless. He could see now, in the glare of the Sun, Mombasa's skyline, it's tall, graceful skyscrapers with their smooth curves, the clean white streets, the abandoned cars like immobile ants from this height. The Space Elevator, its solemn spire reaching into the clouds by now far above. The city was coming closer and closer, the rushing colours and noise now a maelstrom.

There were dozens of other HEVs, all around, heading straight for the Objective, the Carrier. He was overshooting, and so he gripped the control sticks and twisted, trying to steer the HEV towards the massive ship; but the controls seemed to have malfunctioned. He pulled harder, but they wouldn't move at all – he was locked out.

_ What the hell?_ He thought, but then it didn't matter, because the Covenant ship was moving. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, it was moving, gradually gaining speed. Behind it hung a point of purple-blue light, slowly growing and intensifying, whirling. The god damn thing was moving to Slipspace, inside the city!

_ Oh shit!_ Larue thought, his grey eyes peering back at the HEVs that were too close to escape, too close to move. They would all-

The ship disappeared in a world-shaking flash of light and in that instant the city lay in ruins, burning, smoke-belching ruins. The HEV was thrown around, its course thrown completely out of kilter, and now it was starting to spiral out of control as the environment shook with the force of a blast almost like a thermonuke. It was at this point that his helmet was actually torn from him, rattling around, bouncing from his shaved head, a constant bruising force, and then his head hit something harder, and his vision blurred. He tasted blood and smelled that-copper smell and realised he had bitten his tongue. For a moment the stomach-churning carnage continued, and then, finally...blackness. In and out, blackness, gaps of minutes, but to Max Larue, reality became a strobe light, the descent broken and yet in sequence, and then, the last flash of wakefulness, passing rows and rows of broken windows, gusts of black smoke, soot, and smog, great buildings holed and fire-blackened, and then…a bone-shuddering burst of noise and pain, the sudden stop after the incredible drop – later he would only remember feeling as though his shins were in his shoulders and his stomach split up and in his legs.

_Thirty Minutes Before_

PFC Max Larue sat, still fully armed and armoured. His seven-man team had come back from assisting the Orbital MAC Cannon the _Athens_. Though admittedly, the Platform's destruction showed that it had not gone well. There he was, his first action with the Helljumpers, and it was defending Earth. The one thing billions of people had prayed would _never _happen – had. He breathed deep, and adjusted his helmet on his knee. This was it. He had his rifle, an M7 SMG with an integral flash and sound suppressor, lay across his knees. His sidearm, he knew, was empty, his M6S pistol. He had emptied it when he had become separated from his rifle aboard the Athens. This rifle was a replacement from the armoury. He had lost his rifle, first time out. Some Helljumper. He sighed and stared at the floor as his team mates were stony silent to him.

The six of them were all sitting in the HEV deployment room on some hastily requisitioned folding chairs, the seventh man, Gunnery Sergeant Keele, stood gaunt and solemn-faced and covered in Covie blood, before them, explaining their boarding of the Carrier in detail. It was all, to Larue, white noise. The hand placed atop his helmet to keep it there, clenched and unclenched, clenched and unclenched. Something cuffed him hard around the side of the head, knocking him momentarily for six. He refocused on the briefing, his eyes on Keele as he stepped back.

"Yeah Larue," he started, evidently having guessed what Max was thinking, "You screwed the pooch. Get over it; we need to be able to rely on you where we're going."

Larue straightened up, composed himself, but the pangs of self-doubt never left the back of his mind.

"We'll be assaulting the carrier by HEV – it has its shields down, for dropping troops and supplies into New Mombasa by the shitload. The bastards are bound to be expecting us, so once we've landed on the Carrier stay together and keep your eyes open, they're bound to deploy counter-boarders." Keele forged on now he had the unit's complete attention. The Trooper sat next to Larue raised his hand – LCpl Mike Morrison, a South Londoner with a shock of red hair and a penchant for marksmanship, as a result of which he carried the squad's S2AM sniper rifle. It was there now, hooked over his shoulder on its strap. He was absent-mindedly checking his sidearm as Keele was talking, but after several years of working together, Keele knew he was listening.

"Sir, am I right in saying that the plan is as follows: we get into our HEVs, vehicles that travel at hundreds of miles per hour," he paused for affirmation, and Keele nodded, "After which we will attempt to crash into a Covenant ship, and gain purchase on it," he paused again, and Keele nodded, "Then we bust into a ship swarming with aliens, that is, _if_ we survive the impact with the enemy ship, which is unlikely at best." He finished, his tone both inquiring and sarcastic.

"Yes, Mike, that is the plan." Keele answered, a slight smile on his weathered face, twisting the scar that reached from his left ear to the corner of his mouth into a white knot.

"_God_, I love this friggin' job."

The four others in the team were Sgt. Rojas, Cpl Young, PFC Dullen and Pvt. Baruti Fenyang, who was from New Mombasa, and so, as he put it, was 'going home in a HEV'. The briefing lasted another fifteen minutes, and then it had been insertion time. His first combat drop. He climbed, nerves twanging into his assigned HEV. He strapped himself in, and got as comfortable as possible inside, and then, almost as an afterthought, reached into his pants pocket, producing from inside a square of laminate paper on which was a photograph. His wife, and his young son. Her name was Alice, and his son was born while he was away, and so she had sent him the image. His name was Stuart, and one day, Max would meet him.

But for now he had work to do. He pushed it into the narrow gap between the cushioned arm rest and the hull on his left side, and then kissed it. He settled back in the HEV and waited. There was a pneumatic hiss, cutting off the voices of the crew and the other men of his unit calling to each other. The drone of the ship's air filters dissipated, and the door of the HEV swung down and slammed into the rest of the chassis.

_**Present**_

Larue opened his eyes, and with this action realised the pain that pounded through him. He groaned, and squirmed inside his titanium-reinforced prison. He blinked, and brought his surroundings into focus; the confined insides had gone dark, the HEV dead in its final resting place. Now and then the electronics, fried and busted, sparked in his face, making him recoil as best he could. He realised that the plexiglass window was covered in debris and dirt and God only knew what else. He spat blood to one side, and looked around for his helmet, which was crammed into the foot of the HEV. He needed to get the door open, get free, and then he could sort out his gear. He could hear nothing outside, the only sound the sparking electrics. He reached for the manual release for the door, to blast it clear. He hit the button. Nothing.

_ Shit. _He felt panic seep into his mind. He doubted seriously that the thing could be opened from the outside, or not without specialist equipment. He slammed an open palm into the door in frustration, dislodging some debris outside and letting some light in, wan and red-tinged, from a sign overhead. The light let him see through the misted plexiglass a little. He figured he was in the street, so at least if he could get out his position wasn't precarious. Larue pressed the manual release again, and then hammered at it like a broken light-switch. There was a spark, and somehow, the sudden burst of power seemed to give the manual release strength. The door exploded from the frame, and flew into the air. It clattered into the concrete somewhere further down the street outside.

The daylight was fading fast outside, the sky overhead choked off by black smoke and the flames leaping from the ruined city. Mombasa was destroyed. It made him sick to witness the solemn, ominous, dark-windowed structures towering around him, either side of the broad, cratered street. Empty, abandoned cars scattered around it. Here and there were charred corpses, some wearing UNSC Marine body armour, some clad in armoured police blues, some innocent civilians. Many were Covenant, to Larue's satisfaction. Larue smiled to himself grimly. He had survived his first HEV insertion. Feet first into Hell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two - Scattered**

He sat up, shaking his bruised head, and reached for his helmet. The visor was cracked, and so he tossed it aside. It was no use to him now. Instead, he sat and breathed deeply, composing himself. The street ended in a T-junction straight ahead. He looked up at the digital road signs glowing overhead. The T-junction was at the south end of the street. He looked over his shoulder, running a gloved hand through his short brown hair. The north end was blocked by an enormous blast door, the lights red – locked. The buildings either side seemed barricaded, so south seemed his only operable direction. There were no other HEVs, meaning that the squad was scattered by the jumping Carrier. He had to find them; though the rally point was like…nowhere. He suspected, now, that their target had never been the carrier – the controls had been firmly locked out, meaning he must have had a specific trajectory that was not going to land him on the ship. This stank of ONI. He shook his head against the pain. It didn't work. He climbed unsteadily from his wrecked HEV, and turned to retrieve his weapons. His pistol and SMG were fine. He holstered the pistol and racked the bolt on the M7S, then retrieved his webbing, shrugging it on. Fully loaded with his ammunition and frag grenades, he was as ready as he was going to be to move out.

He turned to face the south road, and began to walk, cautiously, rifle ready. He peered to the left and right as he reached the bottom of the street, the distant monotone of the city AI bleating about some traffic violation reaching his ears. Then, the high-pitched whine of anti-gravity engines. He rushed across the T-junction and into a doorway just as a bulbous Covenant dropship, a _Phantom_, nosed into view over the buildings, gleaming purple-blue like the hull of the Carrier, its miniature grav-lifts ringed with lights that cast eerie light into the quiet streets. It hung overhead for a moment, and for a second Larue thought it would pass, but then, the tone of it's engines deepening, it began to descend lazily into the street to an LZ somewhere off to the right hand-side of the junction, out of Larue's sight. Those things could carry an entire platoon of Covenant soldiers. His course had been decided for him.

He made his way left along the cross-street, the barking sound of Brutes yelling orders echoing down the otherwise empty street.

He turned a corner into a wide plaza, a walkway connecting the apartment blocks either side about two floors up their height. The plaza itself was sunken several metres below the rest of the area, the buildings raised up on concrete. Benches lined the plaza intermittently on either side. In the centre was a large rectangular trough in which grew several different species of plants and small trees. Some of it had sunk and broken into a crater where some explosive had hit, and soil spilt down like a landslide into it. One of the apartment buildings had a hole in it, encompassing three floors, the debris heaped against the side of the building, and cascading into the south-east corner of the plaza through the torn and twisted handrail. This area too was sparsely littered with the dead. Here it was mostly citizens. Larue heard a shout, and dropped to one knee behind the handrail, SMG up. He scanned the plaza below him, and the buildings, then saw the source. Relief flooded through him as he saw a figure in the breach in the right-hand apartment block. He was nondescript from this distance, but he could tell it was a UNSC Marine. He drew a pair of compact binoculars from his webbing and sighted on the individual. He was waving, and then when he saw he had Larue's attention, he began to make hand gestures, pointing to the street that led from the opposite end of the plaza. Larue read the motions with a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. The Marine was youthful, freshfaced, though he was streaked with dirt and blood. He had evidently been through a lot. _Twenty plus Covie infantry_, Larue read from the gestures, _led by brutes, backed by Hunters_. He couldn't misread the last gesture. It brought a half smile. _Get your ass in here, quick!_

He rushed around the outskirts of the sunken plaza and began to climb the unsteady rubble to where the Marine awaited, now crouched, his MA5C rifle clutched tight in his hands. The voices of the approaching Covies could now be heard, rattling around the wide-open space.

"Hey, you an ODST? Follow me, the Sergeant's this way." He whispered, and without waiting for an answer, he hurried off along the creaking corridor, into the shadows and darkness. Larue followed suit, his footing unsteady on the already-sloping floor.

They reached a turn-off, half-way along which was a flight of stairs. Larue heard a sound he recognised, a kind of yelp, and he gripped the Marine's shoulder hard. The man nearly fell backwards, but Larue held him up.

"Listen." He whispered. His first word since insertion, he thought. His Throat was dry and cracked and the words were croaky and weird. He pointed at the staircase. The noise came again, followed by high-pitched conversation that both men could understand with their translation equipment.

"I don't like it in here…" the first voice squeaked. Grunts were climbing the stairs.

"Shut up and move, the humans are up here!" squeaked a second Grunt. A squat shadow, a metre and a half tall, with a pyramidal shape affixed to its back, reached the top of the stairs and stepped nervously out. By now, Larue was in cover on the left side of the corridor, the unnamed Marine on the right, both in the doorways of dark, silent apartments. The Marine looked at him, Larue could just about see his outline in the dim light. He raised a finger to his lips in response. _Not yet_.

The Grunt with its bulky atmosphere processor, trudged out of the way to allow a second and third to appear behind him. One raised an arm and gestured back down the stairs to more foes, out of sight.

"Now!" Larue yelled, causing the lead Grunts to jump in alarm – one screamed something indistinct. Laure's suppressed SMG coughed an almost flashless burst of fire down the corridor, the rounds ripping into the closest enemy, fountaining phosphorescent blue ichors onto the floor and walls. The Marine joined him, firing accurately down the corridor. At this range, they couldn't miss. The three Grunts were reduced to sparking, bleeding heaps of leaky meat in seconds. A plasma pistol was pushed around the corner, bright green bolts of white-hot plasma spitting towards them, and as the two UNSC troopers returned to cover, another pair of Grunts hurried into the corridor, taking cover, one behind an overturned chair, hunched low, and the other behind a trough of plants that stood against the right-hand side of the corridor several metres down. Green plasma spat furiously into the corridor, but the little aliens' bulk worked against them in the narrow corridor, meaning only a couple could face them at a time, and in this situation, the two humans had the beating of them. Another went down, its methane mask pierced and jetting it down into the dark emptiness of the corridor beyond, courtesy of the nameless Marine, who let out a whoop of triumph. The Grunt's position behind the overturned chair freed up for the next Grunt attacker. Larue's rifle coughed another short staccato that ripped into the Grunt behind the plant trough and shattered the ceramic trough itself, showering the floor with dust and compacted soil. The Grunt slumped to the ground in a pool of gore.

Larue, aware suddenly that the enemy were not running short on Grunts despite the five or six that had died already, let go of the SMG's pistol grip and took a fragmentation grenade from the left shoulder of his combat webbing. He pulled the pin with his teeth and tossed it the short distance to where the Grunts were emerging. It detonated with a reverberating thud that made the floor shudder and creak. The fallen bodies were torn up further, and charred by the blast, and the shrapnel whipped through the air all over. There was something screaming now, some wounded something further down the stairs, possibly on the next landing down.

Before Larue could tell the other soldier to move up, more green plasma fire whickered past from the other direction, startling them both back into their respective doorways. The other end of the corridor was lit by a gentle blue glow, which Larue saw emanated from the energy shields of two Covenant Jackals, birdlike and thin, standing with their heads cocked, hunched behind the protective barriers, their plasma pistols discharging around the edges where there were niches especially for them.

"Back! Past the stairwell, go!" Larue called, and in the strobing light of the plasma fire he saw the soldier, who appeared to be a couple of years younger than Larue, nod. He stepped out of cover in a lull in the fire, burning off half a magazine in the direction of the Jackals, moving quickly backwards. Larue stepped out to cover him, and the Marine began to run into the darkness. Several seconds later, he heard the man's rifle start up again, and Larue began to move back, crouching low, As he passed the staircase, he saw the source of the screaming. Lying on the landing where the stairs doubled back was a Grunt, screaming and wounded, as he moved, he mercy killed it, a round to the head. The stairs were dripping with alien gore. He computed events in his mind – evidently, the approaching column of Covies outside had known that there was a detachment of human troops in here, and had been sent to flank them. The Grunts had been sent up to infiltrate, and be a diversion, but when they had met resistance coming the other way, they had sent the Jackals and probably more besides, to flank said resistance, which they had successfully done. Now he and the as-yet nameless Marine had to redouble their efforts to reach his Sergeant and warn him they were being encircled.

He reached the Marine where the corridor turned diagonally right. The Jackals were far behind now, and he could hear the clicking, hissing sounds of their chatter as they began to advance. He crouched next to the man as he continued to fire back the way they came.

"What the hell is your name, Marine?" he asked. The man looked at him and grinned.

"Private First Class Dean Tanner, D Company. Yours?" he looked back to the encroaching Jackals.

"Private First Class Max Larue, B Company, ODSTs. Good to meet you."

"You too."

The two men chuckled at the moment of levity after their almost-deaths, and then the two of them began to run down the corridor. They ran past open apartments, their dead occupants strewn on the floor. They passed wrecked apartments, containing the bodies of Marines and Police and Covenant. They passed through a representation of what awaited them throughout the remains of New Mombasa. Horror. They reached the doorway at the bottom as the Jackals rounded the corner, now with barking, yelping Grunts moving behind them, two by two. At the very back was the bulky, ape-like form of a Brute, a plasma rifle in his hand, blazing red death down the corridor towards them. Tanner hit a switch by the door and a heavy fire door slid shut over the opening and locked. It wouldn't hold for long – but it would buy them time. Pretty soon they would either make their way up or down, and around the locked door, or they would bust through this one, or both.

The two men looked at each other, a moment of silent understanding. Then they began to rush, Larue following Tanner to his superior.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three – Between a Rock and...well...a bunch of other Rocks**

Master Sergeant Hal Caldwell sat on the couch, looking at the floor plan of the building that they were in on the PDA the police officer, Tech Officer Yu, had provided. There were too many corridors and stairwells to lock down, and he had too few men to guard every approach. There were four Marines and six police officers that he had managed to group together when he had retreated into the Apartment block, and four civilians. In short, a lot of people were relying on him to pull them through this, and he wasn't sure he could. The city was swarming with remaining Covenant forces, and nobody knew whether more were on the way. He knew that there were Covenant troops in the area, had encountered a large number on the way in, and they could all hear the dropships overhead. There were dozens of them, crawling around outside, and it was only a matter of time before they found a way in, and slipped into the building. Covenant troops, a patrol, had already picked their way in somewhere. A brute and a trio of Grunts had come along the South wing, on the third floor, met by one of his Marines and two of the police officers, and mown down with relative ease. Now it seemed they were in again – everyone had heard the shooting behind their location. Caldwell sighed solemnly. Poor Tanner – he had been an eager kid, and he had the potential to become an excellent Marine. He was now, almost certainly dead.

He had been using an empty yet intact apartment as a CP and armoury, all the spare weapons, ammunition, and other necessary supplies heaped around the room. His own rifle, his MA5C, lay on the table. He removed his bulky olive drab combat helmet and placed it on the table, next to the PDA. He thumped a fist into the table. His dark skin and eyes were signs of his Afro-British heritage. His voice was unexpectedly soft as a result of his light scouse accent, as he spoke to the police officer who had entered, who until then thought he had gone unnoticed.

"What is it Officer Kagiso?" he asked the woman. She was of mixed race, her skin a light brown; he could only wonder how it felt to see her city in such a state as it was. Her face had a certain angular beauty, her hair drawn back into a tight dark bun. She had a lithe, strong physique. In her hands was an M90 shotgun, that looked far too big for her stature, but she wielded it with efficiency. She was fearless in a fight too – two of the Covie patrol that had infiltrated the building had been chalked up to her.

"Your soldier, Tanner," she began, her tone serious as always, "he is back. And he has brought a friend you might like to meet."

"Master Sergeant Caldwell?" Larue inquired crisply as the big, body-armoured figure emerged from the apartment at the broad corridor nexus the mixed unit of Marines and police occupied. He was around six-two, powerfully built, with dark skin. His head had been shaved smooth, and his eyes were alive with a determined intensity. His voice was surprisingly light as he spoke.

"That's right trooper." He cast his eyes over Larue, and took in the dark BDUs and body armour. "ODST? Where's your unit?" Larue was ready for the question.

"No idea sir, we got scattered when the Carrier jumped. I don't even know if they're alive. I was out in my HEV for a long time – I don't even know how long it is since I dropped."

The Master Sergeant appeared to consider this information for a moment, and then looked to Tanner, who stood at attention, like Larue. "Dismissed, Tanner; get back to your station." He jerked his head in the direction of the corridor to his left, stretching off into the darkness. At the end of the corridor, Larue could make out the form of another human, crouched behind a table used to barricade the route.

"Bad news, trooper. It's been five hours since the Carrier bugged out. You've been unconscious a long time; your unit could be anywhere in the city by now." Larue looked downhearted. "Don't worry though, if they've kept their heads down, they shouldn't have run into too many Covenant patrols. Also, there are small, mixed units like ours all over the city – they're bound to link up with them."

Larue felt a little better, and was about to speak, but Sergeant Caldwell wasn't done.

"What's your name trooper?" he barked. Larue straightened.

"Private First Class Maximilian Larue, Master Sergeant." He replied, barking it out in a similar fashion to the order.

"At ease, PFC Larue. I presume that we are now surrounded?" the Sergeant asked, prompting a nod from Larue. "Outnumbered?" Larue nodded again. Caldwell sighed.

"A predicament, wouldn't you say, PFC Larue?" he asked, a note of levity in his voice by now.

"I don't think there are enough Covenant in this _city _to put the UNSC Marine Corps in a predicament, Master Sergeant." Larue answered, meaning every word. Caldwell laughed.

"I like that answer, Larue. Now before you go find your unit, how about you help us show the Covenant that?"

A grim smile spread across Larue's face. "I would love to sir."

"Follow me, soldier."

The others, the Sergeant explained, had been briefed on the contingency plan already. They were on this floor for a reason – the walkway that Larue had seen from outside. They would hold the Covenant off here, while Caldwell and two others, a grizzled Marine in his forties who was ranked as a Staff Sergeant, and so had become Caldwell's second, taking over at the corridor nexus. The two that would go with Caldwell were a younger Marine, LCpl Epsom, trained in demolitions, and a police officer, Officer Hicks. They would rig as many supporting walls on the floors below as they could with a serious amount of C12 explosive they had procured from the supply depot Caldwell's unit had originally been guarding. The job of the remaining troops, under Caldwell's second, the grizzled Staff Sergeant, whom Larue now found was named Thrax, would defend the tunnel nexus while they were doing this. There would be a direct personal radio link between the Marines at all times, and at the ready moment, Caldwell would call the retreat. He and two others would extract across the plaza below, while the bulk of the human squad would pull back through the door to the walkway, and cross it. The building would then be detonated by Sergeant Caldwell.

The building, it was hoped, would collapse, killing the undoubtedly numerous Covenant troops within, and perhaps some around it. At this point, of course, it was likely that the walkway, too, would collapse; so speed was of the essence, of course. The main unit and the smaller group of three would then link up, having carried with them all the remaining equipment that they possibly could. They would then find a new safe-haven, and Larue would then have assistance in tracking down his unit. It was a daring plan, and one that relied on a lot of luck, in that the nexus action would have to draw the attention of almost _all _the Covie troops in the area, in order that Caldwell's smaller team did not get slaughtered by weight of numbers; but it was really the only plan that had even a chance of success.

"Got it, Larue?" Caldwell asked, and Larue nodded solemnly. "Then take up your battle station – the bulk of the enemy troops, I believe, will come down the centre passage, the one that Pvt. Hope is currently at alone thanks to my stealing of Officer Hicks. Good luck, trooper. Take what you need, supplies-wise, and remember to grab your assigned kitbag on the way out."

Larue nodded, and hurried to the remaining supplies stacked in the room, the non-essentials. He replaced his used frag grenade, selected a couple of Covenant plasma grenades, and in addition he took up one bulbous, spiky Brute grenade. He re-stocked his ammunition, and ran past the row of kitbags out of the one-room apartment. The medical supplies, and some ammunition and weapons, had been loaded into strong, military-issue kitbags in order that each Marine would grab one on his way out of the building, so that not all the carefully hoarded supplies would be lost.

"Our own little slice of Thermopylae." Larue heard the Master Sergeant remark, mysteriously. It rung a bell somewhere deep in his mind, and he wondered where he had heard the word before.

The nexus had four passageways connecting to it, which had been held previously by twelve men, including Tanner and the Sergeant. With Larue's arrival it had been upped to thirteen, but with the departure of Caldwell, Hicks, and Epsom, that left only ten. Two men, the scarred, haggard Thrax decreed, the power in his voice tangible, would hold each approach, and two would remain back at the nexus, as ammo runners, and to reinforce hard-pressed men. The 'Centre Corridor', as Caldwell had called it, was at the south-west corner of the diamond-shaped nexus, and would be held by Larue and the Marine Pvt. Hope. At first, Larue had wondered why Thrax himself would not be helping hold the Centre Corridor if Caldwell expected the main thrust of the Covenant attack here.

Then he saw Hope. The man must have been broad as he was tall – built like a fridge, and hard as one. He looked like he could take a Hunter on with his fists alone.

The 'Left Corridor' was at the south-east corner, guarded by Tanner, and a female police officer named Kagiso. The 'Right Corridor' was the corridor he and Tanner had come along to get back to the nexus, and that was guarded by Officer Hammond, and Officer Dufrane. The 'Back Corridor' as it was named to sniggers from many of the troops, was guarded by Officer Lukas, and Officer Muno. The ammo runners were Tech Officer Yu, and Staff Sergeant Thrax, so he could get an objective view of how things were going. Caldwell, Hicks, and Epsom were ready to go, tooled up and loaded up with explosives. They began to sneak along the back-corridor, hoping their way to the stairs would be unblocked.

Thrax had asked Caldwell to be allowed to go in his place; he obviously knew what everyone was thinking – the demo-team was a suicide run; and Thrax obviously felt a great deal of loyalty towards the man. Caldwell had shrugged off his worries, shook his hand, and told him to keep the defence tight and together. Thrax nodded, and fell back to the nexus.

They had been gone some fifteen minutes, fifteen tense minutes, when Officer Muno, a short, pale, female officer from Mombasa SWAT, sounded the alarm.

"Contact!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four – This must be how the Anvil feels**

Gunfire erupted from the Back Corridor, the booming report of an M90 shotgun joined in its roaring crescendo by long bursts of MA5C fire. The high-pitched whine of plasma fire answered it, the music of battle building. Seconds later, the Left Corridor was assailed, the din enormously loud in the tight quarters of the apartment block's narrow corridors. He could hear hope muttering a prayer before the inevitable contact.

The Right Corridor was hit, and once those three had been engaged, Larue began to wonder if Caldwell had been wrong – perhaps they had expected the troops to waste their best troops on the Centre Corridor, and they had redirected vast swarms of soldiers to overrun the weaker positions and slaughter the defenders.

"Hope?" he asked, and the big man nodded. "And yours?" he replied.

"Larue." Max answered, his palms sweating a little. It was good to know the man you may be about to die beside. The two shared a handshake, and then their eyes were brought to the front again. Glowing blue energy shields overlapping, a trio of Jackals were advancing at the fore, another trio behind. Behind them, the inevitable cannon fodder; a long triple-column of Grunts yelping and barking and screaming their high-pitched war-cries as they came on, driven most likely by their Brute masters. All told, there were perhaps two-dozen aliens advancing towards them.

"Come on you rat bastards!" Hope shouted, as Larue gave the shout of "Contact!" and then Hope's assault rifle and Larue's suppressed SMG laid into the advancing shield-wall, driving them back, but unable to score any kills due to the rippling barriers. Larue drew a Covenant plasma grenade from his webbing and tossed it along the corridor – it over-cut the shields and glowed eerily beyond the energy shields. There were shouts of alarm as the shield-wall broke and tried to run, allowing the two humans' fore to cut directly into the enemy ranks. The grenade detonated in a cloud of blue death that cooked the enemy infantry well-done. Perhaps a half-dozen lay dead as the tightly-packed Grunts' grenades cooked off, shaking the building with the force of detonations. More detonations sounded as other troops used grenades to thin the densely-packed ranks of attackers.

The plasma-fire intensified, keeping Hope and Larue ducking, lessening their fire. Another four Grunts lay dead since the detonations, victims of precise gunfire, and the enemy had withdrawn back around the corner to regroup. The humans had the prepared positions, and the excessive number of grenades, and as such, they had the advantage.

Then they all heard it-the scream at the Right Corridor. The Covenant had pulled back a little way, having met tougher resistance than they expected, but apparently not there.

"Man down! Man down! Dufrane's hit bad!" Dufrane could be heard, groaning and moaning in pain. Running footsteps – plasma fire was sounding again in that corridor, and Yu and Thrax were moving to reinforce. Human return fire intensified again, and at that moment Hope slapped Larue, who had been looking back towards the nexus, on the shoulder.

"Back in the game, Helljumper! This time Hell's coming to you." And he was right. This time, the Brutes led the way behind the Jackals, two of the big bastards, their personal shields sparking and flaring under Hope's fire. Larue got in the game as he was told, helping Hope hold them back, their plasma fire burning towards them, the other Brute carrying the strange weapon that spat white-hot spikes at them; the two soldiers' fire pushing the aliens' back while Hope's frag grenade detonated.

Another pair of Jackals died gorily, and the Brutes' personal shields faded out, and suddenly dark purple-black gore was fountaining from the beasts as they roared defiance and charged. The bullets seemed to hardly affect them in their rage, but they inevitably collapsed, tumbling to the floor on top of each other, a nice big blockade halfway down the corridor, the walls stained with their blood. Immediately, Grunts began to clamber over the dead, into the Marines' fire, the bullets tearing through flesh and bone and organs; but there were a hell of a lot of them. Larue threw a second grenade, but the vast bodies of the Brutes absorbed the brunt of the blasts and much of the shrapnel, and only a couple of Grunts fell back, and those only wounded.

"Hold the line! Nobody retreats 'till the Master Sergeant says so!" Larue heard Thrax scream. Then Larue realised that once again the floor beneath them was shaking. He guessed what was coming around the corner before he even saw it.

Master Sergeant Caldwell crouch-walked along the dark corridor, rifle up and forward. Epsom was bringing up the rear, and Hicks, armed with his M90, was in the middle. He had been laden down with the bulk of the explosives, and so required the most protection. They moved in a hurry, the din of battle above loud in their ears despite the two floors between them and the fighting. They had only come across little groups of Grunts assigned as some kind of outer picket. They had been easily surprised and overcome. They moved cautiously but quickly, not wanting to attract undue attention. They had deployed two thirds of the explosives on the building supports already, having already been down to the basement. All that remained was to destroy the supporting pillars in the lobby of the apartment block.

"Contact!" Epson called out, opening fire. Caldwell spun, grabbing Hicks and telling him to keep moving. A half-dozen Grunt infantry were approaching along the corridor, plasma pistols strobing green as they approached, wild and inaccurate fir burning in the dimness. One screamed and pitched forwards onto its belly, the one behind it tipping backwards, a cluster of bullets in its sternum. Caldwell crisped off a burst that ripped the head off of the lead Grunt, its brains gushing back through the air to spatter its comrades, who screamed and broke, running. They didn't make it. All were killed by Epsom and Caldwells' hail of auto-fire.

"Move Epsom; they'll divert more troops here before you know it."

The two ran to get up next to Hicks again. The three moved on, rushing through the corridors.

Before they knew it, they were emerging into the hallway. There were six supports, running parallel up the lobby to the back, and the walls were supporting walls. The lobby was cool and confined; and like the rest of the building, darkened by lack of power. Outside, evening was becoming night, a night lit up by a burning city. Caldwell scanned the dim lobby, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, swinging his rifle this way and that. He turned back to the corridor beyond, and gestured for Epsom and Hicks to enter.

"You two start setting the C12, bring me the detonator when you've finished." Muttered Caldwell under his breath. "I'll cover you both." He swung his kitbag of C12 off of his shoulder and tossed it to Epsom, who nodded as the two came back. Hicks looked like he was about to shit himself, but there was a steely determination beneath the fear. He would do alright when the time came. He clapped the officer on the shoulder as he passed, and then got in by the left corner of the entrance to the corridor from which they had entered. High-pitched voices reached his ears. He spoke into his radio.

"We're at the last stop, Thrax. Hold the line, no more than two minutes."

"_Good to hear sir." _Came the prompt reply, barely audible over the ruckus at the nexus. _"They're bringing up the really heavy shit now. Much longer there'll be nobody to extract – " _something cut him off, and somehow, Caldwell knew that Thrax, his old friend and comrade was dead. He would mourn him later. Right now, they had something to do. And the Covenant were coming.

He raised his rifle and opened fire at the press of Grunts rounding the corner. He watched them retreat, and then peered behind him. At the bottom of the stairs behind, he could see the two others were rigging the supports. They were almost finished. He looked back and was scorched as a plasma shot passed so close to his face he recoiled, his skin burning and blackened. He yelled in pain and fell back, rolling down a flight of stairs, but not all the way to the lobby. A Grunt howled in triumph believing Caldwell to be dead, and they rushed. Caldwell fragged the corridor, revelling in the enemy screaming as the grenade detonated. He followed it up by running back to his original position, hammering fully-automatic fire along the passage, ripping into the Covenant response forces.

More fire came from behind, and he whipped around. He could see Epsom responding to a threat on the other staircase leading to the opposite wing of the apartment block, ripping off burst after burst. Officer Hicks was fervently and shakily putting the last touches on the final bomb, crouched next to the opposite wall. He turned back to the corridor he guarded to be met by a rushing Brute, pounding along the corridor, various Covies moving up behind him in a loose herd. He ejected his empty magazine, slammed home a fresh one, and opened up on the Brute, its personal shield shimmering. He leapt back as it reached him, rifle blazing. He crouched as the plasma sped over his head, and then the weapon overheated. The Brute howled in frustration and threw it down, then swung for the human. Caldwell jumped back again, his weapon clicking empty.

"Duck!" came a voice behind him, and he did, instinctively throwing himself back down the stairs, his empty rifle leaving his grasp. Automatic fire tore into the Brute's depleted shield, making it spark and fail, something that prompted another roar of anger. Caldwell saw it was Epsom…whose rifle now clicked empty. He dropped the mag, but before he could reload, bright green plasma bolt punched clean through his back, creating a huge exit wound in his stomach. Lifeless, he dropped to the ground, steam rising from his corpse.

A calm came over Caldwell. This was it. He drew the M6C magnum sidearm in his thigh holster and took aim. There was a moment's pause as the Brute looked at him, and then the 12.7mm magnum round punched into its eye socket and blew out the top of its head. It collapsed backwards. A Jackal followed, carrying a long rifle, the Type-51 Carbine he had heard so much about. He killed that too, three rounds bursting it apart.

He continued to fire as more of the enemy rushed over the lip of the stairs towards him.

Hicks heard Master Sergeant Caldwell's sidearm fall silent after a flurry of plasma fire. He looked at the door, blasted open sometime in the recent past. He had always doubted his courage; there had been a time during a raid on a known hive of anti-UNSC radicals in downtown New Mombasa where a man had pointed a gun at him and he had just froze – Officer Lukas two floors above was the only reason Hicks was around to doubt anything. Lukas had told him not to worry about it. "Everyone panics sometime." He had said with his trademark easygoing smile. He had not really believed it, but he truly hoped that the man was alive and well and would remain so. He looked at the door and realised, he had a few seconds. He could make a run for it; he might not get far, but he could try. Maybe he would get lucky.

But what about the guys upstairs? What about the two men who had just died to give him this chance. He knew the answer, even as he thought about escape; about his sister, Mary; about his daughter. About his ex-wife. About his Dad.

He stayed exactly where he was, and finished off the final bomb. He spoke clearly into his radio.

"Caldwell and Epsom are dead. I've set a timer instead. You have three minutes. Get clear, please. Lukas, if you can hear me – tha…" he never finished. The round from the Brute needle gun slammed into his side, and he keeled over, dead, the ghost of a smile on his pallid face.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five: Our Own Little Thermopylae**

The Hunter had incinerated Hope with its first blast, and Larue knew he couldn't hold. He began to withdraw as the second one nosed around. As he reached the nexus, he saw others doing the same. Everyone had heard Caldwell's transmission, and heard Thrax's cut short – his body, or his lower body anyway, lay in a pool of cooked guts on the floor halfway down the Right Corridor. Dufrane, too, was dead, as was Lukas. The Marines were grabbing their supply kitbags, hooking them over shoulders, as were the cops. Part of the apartment CP's doorway got destroyed by another Fuel Rod Cannon blast, the Hunters advancing slowly but surely; a lumbering advance that was no less menacing for that. For Larue, the next fifteen seconds was a blur, in cover behind the corners of the corridor mouths, the humans firing and screaming their defiance. Tech Officer Yu was yelling at them to listen but he was drowned out by Muno's blood-curdling shriek as he was hit in the guts by one of the Brute weapons that fired spikes. She collapsed, blood pooling underneath her.

"_-som are dead. I've set a timer instead. You have three minutes. Get clear, please. Lukas, if you can hear me – tha…"_. Yu seemed to recognise the voice.

"Withdraw!" Larue called. "Withdraw, now!"

The Marines all slung whatever extra supply kitbags they could and made their way back towards the door. It slid open when Yu hit the button, and the five standing humans ran out into the dark of the early night, the cool winds whipping at their clothes. Larue turned back, saw Muno writhing, Officer Kagiso and Tanner were attempting to drag her. Tanner, too, appeared to be hit, though it must have been superficial. He rushed to help them, grabbing Muno by the webbing shoulders.

"Get out!" Muno screamed, the pain lacing her voice, thrashing it into a frenzy. "Go, damn it, go!"

Tanner and Kagiso looked at Larue, but he shook his head. Suddenly, Muno stiffened, and broad up the shotgun she still clutched. An overzealous Brute tore around the corner, obviously youthful and headstrong. She pumped three shells into its centre-mass, tearing through its shield and gutting it abruptly. It fell to the floor in a mess of its own insides.

"Leave me, you'll never make it otherwise." She muttered, now faint, the blood pooling around her, although her South African accent was still crisp. The gun was shaking in her slackening hands.

Larue nodded, and the three, with great reluctance, backed out of the door and onto the walkway, unsure of how much time they had already used up. The others were halfway along the walkway, running, laden with supplies. Sporadic, intermittent plasma fire whipped up around them either side of the bridge, small weak groups of Covenant firing potshots at the retreating humans. They ran, Larue finding himself counting down even though he didn't know what the timer had been on during the firefight. They beat feet, their boots pounding as the three sprinted across the walkway. Tanner stumbled and fell, and Larue caught him, hauling the injured Marine upright. He fixed his eyes on the figures ahead and how close they were to safety.

Mafuane Muno pumped the shotgun twice more, ripping a Jackal to shreds, the Covies advancing on her. The weapon clicked empty, and she tossed it away as hard as she could. She pulled her last grenade from her borrowed combat webbing; pulled the pin. The blast hit her in the chest, and her eyes turned glassy. Her head lolled to face the blasted entrance of the apartment-CP. There were a half-dozen grenades left there, on top of equipment boxes.

A Grunt, emerging, looked at them confused as they detonated sharply, killing it and several of its friends.

There was a detonation behind Larue that was nowhere near loud enough to be a C12 detonation, and he fleetingly thought of Muno, and the other brave, dead souls. The three were tiring, but they couldn't slow down; not for a second. Then, another detonation, like the world splitting, the supports of the apartment block blowing out in flashes of blinding fire and light, the glass of the windows shattering into thousands of glittering shards, the building creaking, tilting. It leaned for a moment, and then crashed down, slamming into the walkway and crushing through it like it was a toothpick, hundreds of tonnes of masonry and rubble shattering and blooming outwards in a cloud of grey smoke, concrete dust pulsing into the air like a miniature mushroom cloud. Larue was thrown flat on the walkway, as was Kagiso.

Tanner was thrown off, hanging by one hand as behind them, the walkway collapsed. They both reacted, hauling him up and dragging him along; the other human survivors, battered and bloody and angry waved at them to run, waved and yelled and encouraged. The three on the bridge dashed the last fifteen metres to the opposite side, the closeness and darkness of the next block awaiting them, afraid to let up for even a second; and then, there they were throwing Tanner through the door first, then Kagiso, and finally Larue, throwing himself through the door, the shattering collapsing bridge behind him falling swiftly away towards the debris-strewn plaza below, many of the Covenant troops outside crushed, those within, hopefully, utterly annihilated.

Larue lay face down on the cold floor of the next block nexus, too eerily like the first for his liking. He wanted the darkness around him to take him too, the blissful peace of unconsciousness; but then Yu and Hammond were dragging him to his feet, and they were moving again, moving like the hounds of hell were barking behind them. The adrenalin fading, he felt nothing but pain and weariness, but nevertheless, he pushed on hard. He pushed on with his doomed, scattered mission.

_**Three Blocks East, Ten Minutes Earlier**_

PFC Jim Dullen of the Orbital Drop Shock Troopers knew a lot of things. He knew how to use his M7S to put down a target at extreme range, despite inherent innacuracies in the classic submachinegun configuration. He knew exactly how to steer his Human Entry Vehicle so that he could hit the ground and get clear of it and armed all in fifteen seconds. He knew, more than anything that Covenant forces took no prisoners. Which was why he was lying underneath a burned-out garbage truck, his nose inches from the giant, flat feet of a Covenant Brute. He could hear it breathing, a slow, steady sound like two slabs of granite grinding together. His SMG lay across his chest, the round counter glowing gently. He could hear the scurrying Grunts searching the area around the street. It was only a matter of time before he wound up looking one right in the eyes. He would have to fight them.

Jim Dullen sighed and shut his eyes. He knew that he was a good soldier, too. He had a good record in the Corps as part of the 11th Marine Expeditionary Force, with several confirmed kills to his name. He had joined the ODSTs a year ago, and since then had completed eight combat insertions, and simulated another fifty-four. He had confirmed kills in the Helljumpers too. He was young, physically fit; the very example of great soldierly potential. He also knew that he could not take on a Brute, a half-dozen Grunts, and the Jackals with their Type-51 Carbines he had watched fan out to the high ground around the edges of the street, who now stood atop flights of white steps out front of the skyscraper towering into the dark sky across from his impromptu haven.

He saw that the little hooves of a Grunt, hunched by the weight of his methane processor, were scampering closer, clicking on the pavement. He used his left hand to slowly rack the bolt, making little to no noise. A round chambered, he nestled his gloved left hand over the pistol grip, his left index finger curling around the trigger. With his right hand he drew his pistol, easier to use in the scant foot of space he had to manoeuvre. He pointed it pre-emptively at where he predicted the Grunt would peer under. He heard it's clawed hand clatter against the twisted, broken door of the truck, saw it leaning down. His right hand tensed on the M6S's trigger.

Its face appeared, round and gormless and ugly as sin, half-hidden behind the gleaming chrome of its facemask. He squeezed the trigger, and the suppressed pistol kicked a little, but there was hardly any sound. The round slapped into its forehead and blew its brains out over the bulky atmospheric processor. It slouched, collapsing to the ground. Quick as he could, ignoring the alien cacophony that kicked up around him, he slid the pistol back into the holster and rolled out from under the truck. He found himself lying on his back, looking up at the city's space elevator, which was now a jagged, burning spire. Or he would have been, had a Jackal not been standing in the way, bearing down on him with its beaklike face. Its Type-51 Carbine pointed down at him, but he caught it by surprise, and its claw was not on the firing mechanism. He double-tapped the trigger of his SMG, pointing it up at its face. The rounds blew its head apart and splashed him with purple gore, contrasting strangely with his pallid white skin. He blinked some out of his eyes, and rolled to his feet. Glowing pink Needler fire and green plasma whipped towards him and he dropped to one knee behind the chassis of the truck, its flatbed scorched and twisted. A Grunt, in a move that showed uncommon courage in its species, darted around the corner wailing a battlecry. It died, three rounds tearing into its armoured body, and it toppled over sideways. Needle rounds embedded themselves in the metal and the smooth concrete wall a metre and a half in front of Dullen. There was an advert for some popular soft drink that was smashed into shards. The holographic advert sparked and shrieked as its front scattered onto the ground.

He wiped his face with one hand, getting the rest of the alien blood out of his eyes, but smearing it over his cheeks. The Jackal's body was twitching sporadically. He waited for the barrage of enemy fire to stop, and then swung up and over the cover as it waned, preparing to drop whatever came into his sights first. Which was when the Brute snatched it from his hands by the barrel. Shock on his face, Dullen stood there.

"Well…shit!" he said, as much to the Brute as anybody. It looked at him quizzically for a moment, and then growled in its own language something that came through Dullen's translation software as "I have found my dinner!" which he followed with what was unmistakeably a guttural laugh. Dullen went for his pistol, and the Brute clubbed him with a fist, hitting him so hard he saw stars. He hammered back into the wall, sliding into a sitting position. He watched the Brute smash his SMG into scrap against the totalled truck's cabin, and then it leapt up onto the flatbed, its heavy feet denting it deeply. It unhooked its weapon from its heavy belt, half-hidden by its long fur, one of the spike-firing weapons, UNSC-designated a Type-25 Carbine, short and fat, with two long, hooked blades protruding from under the muzzle. It split its ugly face, full of yellow teeth stained darker with blood from its last grisly meal, into what could only be construed as a smile. He raised the weapon, aiming it at Dullen, who tugged out his sidearm. He aimed it, one-handed. The Brute waited, playing with its prey. He fired, and the round sparked off its shields, a blue glimmer materialising for a moment around its hulking form. It laughed again, deeper and longer, and then aimed the Type-25 again.

The APFSDS round ripped through the Brute's shield and skull in one swift move, turning its head and shoulders to leaky meat. Dullen had seen the glint of the scope in the corner of his eye, and new that somebody with an S2AM, hopefully Mike Morrison, was out there with them. The shield sparking had simply served to accentuate the shape of the creature's head in the low light conditions. It dropped to its knees, causing the flatbed to shudder, and then tumbled off on top of the twitching form of the Jackal. Dullen allowed a slow smile to crawl across his face.

Mike Morrison it was. He heard the man whoop with delight, and then he was pounding towards him, his sidearm on his hands, spitting rounds at the remaining Jackals and Grunts. The Grunts broke and ran, bounding along down the street, totally unthreatening. The Jackals made a fight of it, the three of them, but between Dullen's and Morrison's pistols, they did not last long. The two ODSTs met in the middle of the street, near the body of the first Grunt that Dullen had killed, crouching so as to be less visible. The Grunts would come back, no doubt in bigger numbers and with support.

"Jesus, Dullen, you look like shit mate. How are you feeling?" the man rubbed a gloved hand through his shock of red hair, having removed his helmet to talk directly to Dullen. He clapped the man on the cheek. There was a faint whistling in the background, below the bleating emergency alerts and broadcasts, and the traffic signs run by the Superintendent, the city AI. The thin film of noise hanging everywhere in the city, overcut by this background whistle of a brewing wind through the shattered and broken structures of New Mombasa. The two crouching armoured figures scanned left and right for enemy reinforcements.

"Yeah, Mike, I'm fine. Thanks man, you really saved my ass." Dullen replied in his customary Texan drawl. He dropped the spent magazine from his M6S, the long black cuboid clattering to the floor. He reached into the back pocket of his webbing for another clip. Morrison waved his thanks away.

"That's why the team works man, that's why the team works." He answered simply. Dullen went to speak again, but Morrison raised his hand, hearing something. He looked up. Dullen realised that he could hear it too – another noise had joined the gentle chorus of the broken city – the wail of the Banshee.

"Fliers." Morrison muttered. "We need to get overhead cover." Dullen finished reloading and worked the pistol's slide, chambering the round. He held it two-handed and nodded his agreement.

Seconds later, two sleek, predatory Banshees in fore and aft formation soared between two skyscrapers, splitting the air with their keening wail, carving through the other confused sounds like a cold knife as their stubby wings carried them forth. Mike Morrison and Jim Dullen were long gone, disappearing along one side of the street and then down a side-alley, Dullen leading the way, Morrison covering the rear. The two fliers hooked around and coasted low along the street, the full length of it, right up to the crossroads at its foot, and then climbed, and twisted, and coasted back up. They completed a third pass, and then hooked around, disappearing between the structures back the way that they had come from. They then suddenly changed vector as an apartment block nearby exploded thunderously and collapsed, rattling the pavement with its delayed flash-clap.

Morrison grabbed Dullen's shoulder and stopped him dead, whispering in his ear.

"I say we follow the explosions."

"Why?" Dullen answered. It seemed to him that explosions were good things to avoid.

"The way those Banshees just sped off in that direction…I don't think that was part of the Covenant's program."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six – Crash Course**

_**Location Unknown – Somewhere North-West of Larue's Position**_

Gunnery Sergeant Caleb Keele wiped dust from the visor of his helmet with his gloved left hand, his M7S SMG up and tight into his shoulder with the other, its suppressed muzzle aimed at the corner ahead. He was crouched against the cool, smooth concrete of a nondescript building at a fork in the road, and he didn't want to take any chances. He had seen something down the left-hand fork, and gone to ground. It had been indistinct, but if a soldier on active duty learned one thing above all, it was that you can never be too cautious behind enemy lines. For this reason he paid no heed to the rumbling, distant explosion that reached his ears.

There it was. Finally. He had been crouched there for ten minutes waiting for confirmation. It was slender, humanoid, but strangely as of yet he had come across no Covenant Elites. He waited, his breath freezing in his throat. His patience was repaid. A second figure, similar in stature to the first. This one whispered something, and the two stopped by a parked police cruiser, its occupants dead behind the shattered windshield, splashed with their blood. The voice was unmistakeably human – Australian in fact. Marines.

He let out his breath in a whoosh, and stood. He waved a hand and called.

"UNSC!" the two Marines turned to look at him, jerking their weapons half-up, both MA5C variant Assault Rifles. They realised what they were looking at.

"An ODST? Christ you scared the hell out of us, man." One, the Australian one answered. The other spoke quickly after, his accent from the Western European Protectorate, possibly somewhere in France.

"Damn it, man. Where have you guys been? We're getting pasted down here." There was reproach in his voice. Keele shrugged it off.

"There's a lot of that going around." The Marine scowled.

"Gunnery Sergeant Caleb Keele," he introduced himself, continuing, "Where are you boys from?" He walked over to meet the two soldiers. They looked at each other, and then back at him. The Australian Marine was the one that spoke. Up close Keele could see there were bags of weariness beneath his eyes, and no additional magazines in his webbing. A short-range patrol. They had obviously been fighting for a long time. A heavy shadow of blonde stubble covered his chin. The European Marine was slighter, but more athletic, and he held his rifle tightly as though nervous to the point of snapping.

"2nd Battalion, 77th Marine Regiment. Corporal Bill Ferris. This here is Pvt. Moreaux." They saluted casually, much of their formality beaten out of them by recent events. Keele couldn't say he blamed them.

"Where's the rest of your unit?" Keele asked, already dreading the answer.

"No idea, sir. We know where some are – but the Battalion is scattered all to hell. There are another sixteen of us, dug in back that way," he punctuated this remark by waving an arm back the way they had come, pointing down the left-hand fork. It was a market district, the road lined with glass-fronted stores, one or two-storey buildings, many of their front windows shattered. There were abandoned stalls either side of the road, on the broad pavements. There were fewer cars along that fork of the road, most drivers knew to avoid the market district on a market day, so packed would it be with the mega-city's inhabitants – and that was exactly what the day had been when the attack hit. There were, however, a great deal of charred bodies. He could almost smell the death from here. The hot sting of the choking smoke was burning in his nostrils, the stench of decay underlying it. "We've got an uplink with the fleet, but they're too busy to talk to us lowlife infantry." The last words he spat with great venom. Keele understood; it was hard not to resent the flyboys at times, but Marines often forgot the amount of ship-bound personnel that had been killed in this war in the line of duty.

"Where exactly?" he pushed, and this time Moreaux answered.

"Dug in at a crossroads a little way down. They've been monitoring Covie chatter upstairs, and that's all the flyboys gave us. They reckon some of the Covies remaining armour is coming that way, going downtown towards a concentration of 3rd Battalion boys who are already under heavy pressure. This might be the beating of them." His tone was that of a condemned man. Keele wouldn't have that in any of his own men, and he wouldn't have it here.

"You say there are eighteen of you in total?" he asked, and received dual nods in return. "Plenty of Spankers?" he asked, referring to the double-barrelled rocket-launchers issued to Marine Infantry of all descriptions and vocations. More nodding. "Sounds like you could use an extra man. Who's in command down there?"

"Lieutenant Palmer." They answered in unison. There was a moment of silence.

"Let's go see Lieutenant Palmer then, Marines. Lead the way."

***

Larue and the battered band of survivors, Kagiso supporting Tanner, whose shoulder was now filled with biofoam straggling but for Hammond, bringing up the rear with his shotgun slung over his shoulder, and Tanner's MA5C in his hands. Yu and Larue were up front. Larue looked at Yu and could barely see the light-brown colour of his skin – his face was a mask of grime and fear, and his brown, tapering eyes were empty. The fabled thousand-yard stare. He supposed they must all look the same. They moved quickly, Larue thought west, along a broad main road. Either side the buildings towered above, what had once been graceful structures, office buildings and such, their windows shattered and their walls torn and tattered, metal spokes protruding from twisted concrete. They tried not to look at dead, instead focussing on weaving through the heaped debris and craters and silent vehicles, civilian and military. Buried in the front of a building on the left was a dropship that spat flames and showers of sparks. The smell of burning meat poured from within on the smoke that guttered and billowed from the wreckage, the debris and rubble tumbling over the crushed and battered wings and engines. The hold was dented and scarred and it was here where the smoke prevailed, the tail sticking up from the upside-down carcass of the dropship.

"Where are we going?" called Hammond from the back. Kagiso looked up as though she too had wanted to ask. Tanner remained silent and deathly pale.

Larue answered without stopping, his eyes never stopping searching the road ahead. "No idea. Away from the Covenant." He called. Hammond made a sound halfway between a gasp and a sigh.

"Apparently, your plan ain't going well. Contact!"

Larue spun and levelled his SMG. Two purple-blue craft, hovering a couple of feet above the blasted ground were speeding towards them, neck and neck. Ghosts, bulbous and compact. They spread out to come at the little unit from both sides.

"Get cover!" Larue called, and saw Kagiso react fastest. A deep crater was next to her, a civilian vehicle tilting into it. He threw Tanner in, and dove in after him, rolling to the pit of the crater. Hammond dropped to one knee behind a long, low-roofed, narrow civvie car, sporty and sleek, on his left. Somebody, Larue thought drily, would be really glad he had insurance. Yu rushed to take cover next to him. Larue took position the opposite side, behind the burned-out wreck of a convertible, its roof down, a small, sad, blackened corpse in the back seat. Larue tried and failed to ignore the implications of the discovery.

He peered around the front of the vehicle, past a shattered headlight.

The Ghosts closed, and bright blue bolts of heavy-duty plasma fire lanced from their twin guns, raking their vehicles, turning the metal of their opposite doors into molten slag, shaking the vehicles and hammering them back several inches. Larue looked to his right, anticipating the flanking move. The Ghost hooked around his cover pavement-side and tried to turn sharply. He raked the blur with SMG fire, rounds sparking along the sides and front, doing little to the light armour plating. The pilot was a Brute, he now realised, as some of the bullets cracked against its shield. To his left, Yu and Hammond reacted in a similar fashion to the left-hand threat. It raced past and was hammered by rounds, then spun around to come back. Plasma fire burned over head as the two threw themselves flat.

The boom of a shotgun interrupted the arms exchange. Kagiso had joined Larue's efforts, an unexpected threat to the right-hand Ghost, which attempted to train its guns on her as she emerged from the crater. She showed not a drop of fear, determinedly firing and then pumping the shotgun, round after round slamming into the Ghost's fuselage and the Brute's shield.

Something she hit was sensitive. Something sparked in the engines and strange, blue-tinged smoke choked from it. Larue leapt up and emptied his clip into the Brute. Its shields held, but it ditched its complaining ride, which slammed into the ground and skittered away into the wall, where it came reluctantly to rest. The Brute rolled to safety, concrete chips from his vehicle's impact spattering off his shimmering shield.

Larue dropped the mag as the Brute came to its feet. It was one of what the UNSC had termed 'Brute Ultras', a huge beast wearing far more armour than its smaller (as far as the word applied to Brutes) counterparts. It drew its weapon, a plasma rifle, its chrome surface gleaming. It whipped the weapon up and hailed fire in Kagiso's direction. She threw herself backwards, and the fire split the air where her head had been just a moment before. Larue gave up his attempt to reload. He had to act fast. He reached for a grenade, finding only the spike grenade he had had since the apartment block battle. He twisted it and primed it, and hurled it underarm. It embedded itself in the surface of the shining plasma rifle, where it hung for a moment. The Brute looked at the weapon and dropped it, but too late. It detonated, blasting him backwards and riddling him with two-inch spikes. It wailed piteously and gutturally, and pitched backwards, horribly wounded and leaking blood.

Larue turned his attention to the remaining Ghost, who was making life hell for Yu and Hammond, who were desperately keeping moving in opposite directions to make themselves less of a target. With Larue and Kagiso, newly recovered, they closed it down. It hit its turbo booster to escape, and jetted through a gap in the group. It rushed across the street, a short boost to give it room to manoeuvre – and it suddenly found itself encumbered as it drifted to a halt and began to turn around. For Tanner, the crazy son of a bitch, had lunged for the vehicle's rear, and grabbed a hold of the Brute up close and personal, with his one good arm. The Brute reached up with one arm to shrug and shove him free, but its own back was too broad, and it was like trying to scratch a problematic itch. The Ghost began to drift to the left, guns silent.

"Kill the son of a bitch!" He yelled frantically. "Kill it!"

Larue jammed a magazine into the receiver, finally, and racked the bolt. The four others lined up, and raised their weapons to their shoulders. Tanner disengaged himself, rolling back into the crater. The Brute looked somewhat relieved.

And then the four unleashed a respectable hail of small arms fire into him from close range, tearing him to bloody shreds. The Ghost dropped directly down, and Larue's breath caught in his throat.

_Tanner!_

"And he's okay!" came an exultant voice from within the deep crater, out of sight. Larue and the three police officers breathed a collective sigh of relief. Kagiso and Yu went into the pit and Hammond disappeared from view, while Larue stood stock still for a moment, catching his breath.

"What should we do with this one?" came Hammond's gravelly tones. He had a little of the African accent to go with his heritage, but not much, Larue noticed. Perhaps he grew up somewhere else. Larue looked over. The wounded Brute was still moaning and wailing in pain and rage. Its head and upper body were propped up against the rear door, passenger side, of the car tilting into the crater. Larue walked up to it. It snarled and spat, defiant until the end, as was to be expected from its kind. Larue jammed the muzzle of his SMG into its gaping mouth and fired once, blowing out the back of its head.

Yu emerged from the crater with Tanner, having taken over from Kagiso. He held his M7 non-suppressed variant SMG one-handed – the recoil would be a bitch.

Tanner was grinning. Laure grinned back, despite the severity of their situation.

"You know what, I'm no expert," Larue said to him, the ghost of humour in his voice, "this being my first day as a Shock Trooper, but doing something that balls-to-the-wall insane gives me the impression you would make a hell of an ODST yourself." Tanner looked inquisitive.

"So what did you do that gave someone that impression, Max?" he asked.

"I crashed into a Wraith tank in a 'Hog full of explosives to stop it shelling my unit." Larue answered.

"Jesus, Larue, where?" Hammond asked, his face disbelieving.

Larue turned away. "Abyssus III. Lets go, before their infantry catches up."

The others wordlessly followed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven – It's a Small World**

**_The 77th/2nd_**

The mixed platoon of Marines from the 77th/2nd was a sorry sight – weary, in some cases wounded men, men who had been put through the ringer, under psychological pressure like nothing else…men who could be trusted to continue to fight under such conditions. These, Keele decided, were the cream of the crop. The survivors. The die-hards. The crossroads, the corner buildings four bombed out shops, their flat roofs encircled by parapets relatively intact – the cornerstone of the Lieutenant's defence. They approached along the north road, the other roads at the other compass headings. Ferris and Moreaux nodded to him and disappeared to find the Lieutenant. Keele waited, crouched at the right-hand corner at the bottom of the north road. After a while, a tall man with silver-grey hair and eyes like steel, his Marine uniform tattered and bloody, rushed out to join him, crouching at his side. He held an MA5C in his hands, pointing downwards. He looked to be about forty years of age, and his face, which was curiously clean, was lined with his experience. He bled from a shrapnel wound in the thigh, staining the grey-green leg of his BDUs.

"Good to see you, Gunny," he said, his voice holding no note of actual emotion – it _was _good to see him. He spoke everything like an imperative.

"You too, LT." Keele responded, shifting the weight of his SMG to his knee and gesturing up and down the road. "The enemy rolling down the west road?"

The Lieutenant nodded sharply. "I've got a defence rigged. Now I know I outrank you, soldier, but I respect the ability of you Helljumpers, especially the non-coms. All mine have been killed, every God-blessed one of them. Now, I'll lay the plan on you – any suggestions, hit me with them."

Keele nodded. He had only the greatest respect for the commissioned officers that talked like that. Respecting the ability of those under him, asking for suggestions – making the decisions as a committee, while still shouldering the responsibility of making the final call. He listened carefully while the Lieutenant outlined his plan.

"I've got nineteen men, including you and me. We've got personal weapons, a few additionals, and plenty of ammo. We've got two M19SSMs, and an AIE-486H Heavy Machine Gun. One sniper, with a spotter, hanging out in the two-storey building back there." He gestured along the East road at that point to the closest two-storey shop, a scope gleaming in a side-window of the second floor, looking west. Keele nodded mutely.

"These rooftops here;" he pointed to the East road's corners where they adjoined the crossroads, "I've got Collins and Weber up there on the left; give us a wave boys!" two soldiers on the indicated rooftop popped their heads up over the parapet and waved. The closest one had a 'Spanker' rocket launcher resting on his shoulder.

"Up here on the right," he continued, "we have the other launcher, in the very capable hands of PFCs Alonso and Mucus!" A voice belonging to someone Keele could not see, due to his proximity to the building, called, "That's Mewell, jackass!" to collective laughter. To Keele's surprise, the severe-looking lieutenant grinned.

"Where did you place the MG?" Keele asked, unable to see it. The Lieutenant looked at him, his smile now grim. "Up with the sniper, but it ain't assembled yet. Don't want the Covies smelling a rat until the ambush is ready. One guy charged with that. The spotter will help him. The three in there are Ramirez, Dawlish, and Newly."

"The rest of the boys are deployed in the windows, as you can see." He gestured all around him. The stores at the corners had windows that extended around the corners a short way. In the window next to his head, Keele could see three guys with their rifles, aiming down the street. The shadows of the store, and the deepening night around them, meant that very little actual hiding was necessary on their part. Three more were in the left-hand corner building of the east road. The rest were in the buildings that cornered the west road, ducking low to avoid being spotted. These big shop windows meant that it was easy to get grenades in, but due to the spacious nature of the stores, it meant they could be fairly easily avoided or returned in some cases. With luck, the sudden and well-planned ambush would hit the Covies hard enough they would be thrown into confusion.

"Now, Gunny – what's your name?" the LT asked at last. Keele smiled grimly.

"Keele, Lieutenant." He answered.

"Now, Keele, I want you in this building right here," he pointed to the corner on the opposite side of the road to the one he was crouched next to, on the west road, "I'll be in that one opposite." Keele nodded his understanding a final time, and the LT clapped him on the shoulder and disappeared off to rejoin his men in his old position. Keele rushed to what was evidently the back door of the shop he had been assigned and it slid open. He dashed inside, to meet the two Marines with whom he was about to fight. They turned as he entered. One had the gaunt, solemn, sculpted features that suggested Eastern European Protectorate to Keele, while the other was Hispanic.

"Hey guys, I'm Keele, yourselves?" he asked as he entered. They looked bushed. For a moment they appeared not to hear him, and then almost as one they responded.

"Garcia."

"Ilyanov."

There was a moment of silence, and Keele looked around. They had prepared their position well. Against the west wall, opposite him, were the spare supplies, nicely placed out of the line of fire. They had built up the space along the window with the tables and chairs from within, barricading themselves in, giving them a solid defensive parapet. He realised, from the scraps and rags of singed clothing on the ground let Keele into the fact it had once been a clothing store. That and the broken mannequins. The counter of the store, in the corner, was now bare. Keele dropped into cover next to him. He still had a full load of ammunition, and the combat itch was building. The two Marines were still staring at him.

"Well…" he started in the increasingly awkward silence, "Let's kill some alien bastards then, huh?"

***

There was a rumble in the distance, the rumble of many grav engines. There was a sick, almost wet shine in the distance, the moonlight glinting off of the Covenant armour plating like sunlight off a beetle – the smooth, almost elegant curved hull of what had to have been a Wraith tank by its size, began to emerge at extreme range from the deepening night. In front of it coasted two smaller contacts, the same soft sheen to their hull – a brace of Ghost escorts. In the centre the lead vehicle was plainer – one of the enormous Brute Choppers, its enormous front wheel, flanked by its twin Spiker guns, bellowed its arrival. It ground along at moderate speed with the Ghosts. Lieutenant Mark Palmer had fought the Covenant for many years. He had been in a great number of battles, and if he knew anything, then behind there would be at least one additional Wraith tank, and a whole swarm of supporting infantry for a column of this scale. The roar of grav-engines that was slowly building was far too great to be simply the antigravity capable vehicles that he saw – but with the noise of the Chopper interfering there was no way he could say for certain. But his gut told him there was a sting in the tail.

He used his personal radio to contact the launcher and sniper teams, not to mention Newly on the MG.

"Okay boys hold fire until they're in the kill zone. What can you see of force composition?"

"_This is Ramirez. Its bad, sir. Infantry loaded into Shadows coming up behind, a shitload more on foot. A second Wraith at the back, and something behind that, standby."_ Ramirez's voice trailed off, and Palmer waited patiently. The moments crawled past like hours.

"_A third Wraith, AAA configuration. Those dual fuel-rods will rip us apart sir!"_

Before Palmer could respond, the ODST, Keele, who had evidently been listening in, interrupted.

"_He's right, Lieutenant. Any counters?"_ his voice wasn't nervous-more that it was businesslike. Palmer breathed deep for a moment, and then answered.

"There is a line of C12 shaped-charge explosive across the roadway, forty metres down. We have to time their detonation perfectly, and we can get the damn thing. It's imperative that we hold fire until it is _exactly _in the right place. Ramirez, Dawlish; It's on you guys to tell us when that is. You can do it guys." He encouraged them gently but firmly. His tone told them that he believed in them, while still reminding them that if they fucked up, they were all dead.

Minutes passed and the vaguely insectlike Covenant vehicles approached, steadily and slowly. Palmer held in his fist the detonator switch for the rigged C12 plastic explosive, with breath baited. The growl of the assorted engines grew louder and louder. It was impressive – it would have taken great organisational skills among the scattered Covenant forces, to assemble such a column of armoured strength in one place with which to strike. The air threat worried him too. Phantoms were patrolling everywhere, brimming with Covenant squads ready to drop anywhere in the city at a moment's notice. They could quite easily be used to outflank and surround their little ambuscade. He pushed it to the back of his mind. They would have to worry about that later. He refocused on the task at hand.

Every second was agonising as the column, advanced at a slow, almost cruel pace. Marching feet could be heard along with the engines now, as well as Brutes calling commands and admonishments. The Ghosts, their whining engines more high-pitched than the others, the very sound unnerving. He gripped the detonators tighter.

"_Okay guys, prepare to hold in your gas because they're about to start passing you." _Came Ramirez's calm, level voice over the comm. As he spoke the lead vehicles, oblivious to the presence of the ambush, coasted into Palmer's view. The Brutes looked left and right, unseeing, They carried on straight past. The Chopper had fallen in behind them. As it passed, it was deafening, the roar of its powerful engine echoing around the shattered storefronts, crunching through the broken grass and chunks of debris and masonry.

Behind them, they could hear the throaty sound of the lead Wraith, the sound thunderous combined with the other grav-engine vehicles behind.

"_Ten seconds people_._" _Ramirez added quietly over the comm., hardly daring to breathe himself, even up in his sniper nest. Palmer shut his eyes.

"_Five. Four. Three."_ He opened them again, poised his finger over the detonator switch.

"_Two." _One of the Marines in there with him, Pvt. Green, coughed, and looked at Palmer with horror and embarrassment, but the noise of the grav-engines was now too great for him to have been overheard.

"_One." _

The AAA Wraith was blown upwards into the air on a plume of smoke and fire that shook the world. It slammed back into the ground even as the force of the explosives butted the Wraith tank immediately in front of it forwards. It hit the rear of the short column of three Shadows, smashing into it with a sound of grating metal, and slewing it sideways so that the APC crushed through the wall of the next store down from Keele's position, creating a colossal racket and collapsing the store, shaking debris down on Keele and his two Marine companions from the ceiling of their own hideaway. Some of the unluckier infantry trailing behind were incinerated in the blast, and some simply lost limbs or were horribly burned or wounded by shrapnel from the destroyed tank. Their screams filled the air, over even the roar of engines. The other Shades hurried to deploy their troops to assist. The frontmost Wraith's coaxial plasma cannon raked the storefronts either side, well over the heads of the Marines inside, and below the roofs, doing no damage at all. Sheer panic fire.

The two Ghosts, nimble in ordinary circumstances, were blocked by the vast body of the unwieldy Chopper trying to turn in the relatively narrow street.

"Go! All teams! Collins, Mewell, Spank 'em!"

The ambush began. Palmer grabbed his rifle, and as one with his men, opened fire, sheeting automatic hell into the space between the stores.

PFC Collins came up from a prone position into a crouch, seeing Weber already reaching for the satchel of replacement missiles. Over on his left was the carpet shop where he could see Mewell already taking aim. From his perch atop the old carpenter's store, he raised the missile launcher. His first rocket spat from its chamber at the exact same moment as Mewell's, and both slammed into the lead Wraith at the same moment. The missiles ripped into its hull, and the Wraith was gutted by blue fire as it blew out under the impact of dual HEAT missiles.

A vapour trail split the air to his left, and blew apart the head of a Brute whose shields had sparked out as a result of the explosion. Its blue helmet split in two under the impact of the APFSDS anti-materiel round. Grunts began to panic and run. The sniper rifle cracked, again and again in Ramirez's hands.

Newly geared up the MG.

Collins turned and sent his second missile spearing into the Chopper, blasting it into scrap. Its colossal front wheel bounced off the wall in front of it, still spinning, still heavy as a bastard, and rolled over one of the Ghosts, crushing it and killing the driver. A few Covenant energy weapons cracked, but now all the Marines were firing, and a dozen or more had been cut down, not including the wounded and the crews of the stricken vehicles. The shade gun of the lead Shadow whirred around and fixed onto Collins, who threw himself and Weber who was reloading him flat just in time as the air above was filled with pulsing tri-beams of writhing blue-white plasma. It was then abruptly silenced as Mewell made it his second target, blasting it to pieces. Four of the troops it contained, elite assault units packing only the finest weapons, were ripped apart by the explosion. The night was suddenly as bright as the daytime with muzzle-flares and explosions and return fire.

The remaining Wraith made its presence known. Pvt. Alan Newly saw it first. The MG was raining heavy-calibre rounds into the press of Covenant bodies. Grunts and Jackals dropped and bounced and flew apart, the bullets causing horrifying damage. Those with brains rushed for the ruined vehicles to use chunks of their wreckage for cover. Those without, died.

The tank trained its weapon on the now blazing second-storey windows of the store a little way behind the central site of the ambush. A great orb of roiling, undulating, impossibly hot, encased in energy, exploded from the mortar cannon atop the tank and twisted through the air.

_Fuck._ He thought as he realised its target. They couldn't lose this position of commanding fire or the ambush would fall apart – they were still outnumbered. He threw the gun on its tripod to one side, and then looked to Dawlish and Ramirez who had not noticed the danger. Dawlish had abandoned his spotting job – Ramirez more than had it covered. It was a turkey shoot down there. He blazed away instead with a BR55HB SR, rattling off bursts from the ranged weapon.

"Get down! Get away from the window!" Ramirez looked at him and was implicitly trusting, but Dawlish didn't hear. Ramirez grabbed him, and dragged him away, just as the plasma mortar hit, caving in or melting into glass a great portion of the concrete wall, caving it in through the lower roof next door. Luckily, they were two stores back from the ambush site. Newly shook his head to clear it. He could hear screams. Ramirez was cradling Dawlish, whose face, neck, and hands were burning, while still more liquid plasma was burning through his body armour and BDUs. His screams were terrible, but did not last long – he died as it burned through all the wrong organs. Ramirez shielded his nose and a second later, Newly became aware of why. The reek was unimaginable.

"Al! Leave him, he's dead! Help me get the MG back up!" he called over the sound of next door's roof collapsing, and the din of weaponsfire thronging the street.

Alejandro Ramirez nodded sadly and let the corpse fall, stepping carefully over it. He helped Newly drag the tripod upright and re-pin the gun together.

Mewell looked at Alonso while he struggled with the jammed launcher. He was pretty sure the support nest two roofs back was gone. He looked over the road, and saw the roof next to it had caved in, but figures were moving. Thank God for that. He turned back to the carnage at hand and barked off another trio of bursts. Grenades detonated in amongst the vehicle debris in the street and more Grunts and Jackals died squealing and choking. Auto-fire ripped from the Carpet Store beneath him, and from the Carpenters upon which Collins crouched. He had his launcher up, let fly with a missile that slammed into the remaining Wraith, making it lurch. Its follow-up shot, which had been charging inside its main weapon, hissed from the barrel, but was knocked off-course by the missile impact. It hurtled overhead and swept into an alleyway behind the storefronts where it exploded harmlessly, leaving a glassy crater in the ground.

The Wraith crashed into the Wreckage behind it. The Shade that was still in position to fire its gun, was firing. Collins second missile dealt with it. Mewell heard plasma fire cutting through the window of the Carpenters. The Brute pilot laughed as it hammered fire into the window. It had an entire nest of fire pinned, crucially weakening the ambush. He turned his rifle on it, fired a burst, realised it would be totally ineffective – A Brute Ultra piloted it, its shields strong.

"Alonso, give me the launcher, damn it!" he bellowed. The LCpl finished un-jamming the weapon and tossed it to Mewell, who caught it on his shoulder, whipped it around, and then slammed a round into the light vehicle. Gore and metal rained down as it violently exploded. He whooped, and set the launcher down, and soon he and Alonso were raining fire onto the enemy just like everyone else. Until the heavy guns of the Phantom ripped them apart from behind, cauterising their wounds and sending parts of them hurtling to the ground below.

The noise in the clothing store was incredible – the noises from outside and inside rattling around its cavern-like interior. Plasma burned into the back wall, while his and the two Marines fire rattled rounds into the exterior, spanging and sparking and slapping into metal and chrome and bodies. Keele burned off his magazine and reloaded swiftly, hammering another clip away in several sustained bursts, tearing up the Covenant light infantry. He was scratching that combat itch well enough. Thirty Covenant must have been lying dead outside, their bodies torn and burnt and shot to pieces. It was satisfying as anything he could ever remember. The previously zombie-like Marines were in their element. Garcia was on his feet, his quiet nature instantaneously reversed. He was pouring rounds through and screaming _'Get some! Get some!' _at the stricken enemy column. All Covenant armour was down, so far as he knew, except for the Wraith so packed in by debris it was having trouble turning. There was a problem however – when the rear Shadow in the file had crashed into the storefront, caving in the building, it created a lot of debris in which Covie soldiers now took cover. He only hoped that they weren't smart enough to blow through the connecting wall and outflank his position. The missiles from the Carpet Store was no more; He figured they would be using their rifles by now. But _nobody _was finishing off that tank, and it unnerved him – it was there, stuck like a wounded animal. In other words, it was at its most dangerous.

Plasma fire began to whip more fiercely as the now smaller number of Covenant troops all found cover amidst the assorted wreckage outside.

Heavy pulsing fire from the Wraith's coaxial suddenly joined it, punching clean into Ilyanov and knocking him screaming back. He was hit in the gut, though only some had hissed in around his breastplate. Keele dropped his SMG and ripped the body armour jacket open and off to stop it burning clean through.

"Garcia, is there an aid kit?" he yelled over Ilyanov's screams and prayers in Russian. He muttered, attempting to calm him, but the man couldn't hear him over his own yelling and the incredible maelstrom gripping the street. Something round and effusing blue smoke and flash was over-armed in through the window. It landed a couple of metres behind where Keele crouched over Ilyanov. Reacting fast, he leant over the stricken man and tugged his removed body armour jacket, still hissing thin grey smoke, over his back and legs. It detonated like thunder, spitting microshrapnel into his barely-covered shoulders, causing him various stinging cuts and pains; but Ilyanov had been protected. He tossed away the breastplate, and wondered what the hell Garcia was doing. He looked up and the man was fumbling with the aid kit.

"Fuck it man, biofoam, we're losing him!" he yelled urgently, and that Garcia could find he tossed the heavy canister to Keele, who deftly caught it and began to fill the deep-torn wounds in Ilyanov's insides.

"Now patch him up for me, I'll cover you, he knows you!" he continued, and Garcia nodded, grabbing the aid kit and running back to the parapet. He grabbed his weapon and checked the clip – it had been empty. He dropped the clip and reloaded. He had one more clip that he remembered. He patted down his webbing pockets with one hand. Yeah. One more. One more magazine after his current one. He turned and popped up, firing at the cowering Covenant troops more urgently now.

Lieutenant Palmer tried hard to ignore Pvt. Green's dead, accusing stare as he took a clip from the dead boy's webbing. He slammed it into his weapon and began to pour it on again, following up the grenade he had tossed four seconds before, the reverberations of the detonation still shuddering the floor. He saw something in his peripherals. Something high up, and the bottom of his stomach fell out. The Phantom, bulbous and obscene, drifted over the rooftops of the north road, its guns whirling to focus on Mewell and Alonso. They died torn to pieces by heavy-duty plasma fire. He felt both their deaths with a great sense of mourning, as he always did when a man assigned to him was killed in action. Any second now, Collins would go the same way. Except for that moment, Collins blasted off the front remote turret on the Phantom's underside in a shower of blue sparks. The ship lurched back a little as another rocket slammed into it, and Palmer felt immense pride.

Collins screamed for a reload as the Phantom turned side-on, the side-doors opening. A grunt rushed on to the shielded plasma cannon in the starboard door and began to cycle it up. The rocket launcher had never been so swiftly reloaded – the weapon stitched hellfire across the rooftop and its parapet, and the two men ducked low. When it stopped to cool down, he came up, firing another two missiles. The Phantom jinked to avoid, but too late. The outer hull absorbed one, and the second group slammed into the inside, un-armoured and soft bulkhead within the dropship. It swayed uncertainly, went into a gentle spin, and then righted itself. Over the storefronts to the North, either side of the road, Covenant troops were bailing out. The flank raid had succeeded. Guttering blue-hinted smoke and fire, and resigning from the fight, the Phantom extracted itself to the north, and then swept around to head off in an easterly direction.

"Shit." Collins muttered as he watched the collection of Jackals and Grunts, headed by a golden-armoured Brute Chieftan armed with the bulky Brute-shot grenade launcher, its wicked curved reversed bayonet reflecting the light from muzzle flares.

"Shit." Ramirez and Newly echoed, as one, unknowingly. Ramirez lined up a shot with the sniper rifle, now crouched in the shadow of the half-destroyed wall. Newly geared up the gun.

"We protect that flank, Newly, no matter what." Muttered the latino sniper, picking a target.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight – It really **_**is **_**a Small World!!**

Palmer saw the Phantom dropship pull away, wounded by Collins' rocket fire and felt a sense of elation. Infantry they could handle, his men were tough – but air support was a problem. He spoke into his comm..

"Hold it together Marines! Just hold it together. They have to retreat soon! They have to! Their armour is neutralised. Hold your positions!" he bellowed, triumph in his voice. Pvt. Moreaux was reloading, his hands shaking a little, fumbling it. He finally got it jammed home, and slipped into the corner of the room, to fire blind through the broken store window, but Palmer grabbed him by the shoulder and hauled him upright, and the two stepped to the parapet. They poured burst after burst into hunched figures, cutting down A Brute Major who was attempting to lead the troops in the street, trying to get the Grunts to attack. He saw the two and made to throw a grenade, but his life ended too quickly. He staggered back, dancing to the tune of lead, and then keeled over, the spike grenade dropping next to him. There was a thump of a blast, and yelling as the razor-tipped spikes riddled several nearby Jackals. Some Grunts in behind the wreckage of the lead Wraith tank began to backpedal, even their Deacon, a red-armoured, more ornate atmosphere processor designed to look distinguished, looking instead vaguely ridiculous as he waddled away from the fighting; when he retreated, the Grunts, with no Brute close enough, began an outright rout, but were quickly scared back into action.

There was, he noticed, a disturbing number of Covie infantry sidetracking in through the breach in the shop front next one down from Keele's position, where the middle Shadow had crashed. He had seen perhaps a half-a-dozen go that way so far. He made to communicate with Keele, but too late. He heard from Keele first.

Just as Keele had thought, the connecting wall between the clothing store and the next building collapsed explosively inwards. He whipped his rifle around, and Garcia looked up, grabbing for his own rifle. The first thing to come through the breach was, predictably, a group of squealing Grunts, which were quickly and dutifully slotted. They sparked and tumbled as they were riddled with rounds. Keele's SMG clicked rapidly as the firing pin continued to strike an empty chamber.

_Shit._

He tossed the useless weapon aside and made for Ilyanov's MA5C just as two Jackals with energy shields edged their way in through the two-metre gap, their barriers eerily glowing in the haze of gun-smoke and concrete-dust. Their pistols blazed, and Keele reached for a grenade that wasn't there. He noticed one attached to the webbing of Ilyanov, but the man had passed out from blood loss and pain. The rifle in his left hand by the shaft, he grasped the grenade and pulled it clear, losing the spoon and pin all in one go, and then fluidly tossed it at the Jackal.

"Get down!" he bellowed to Garcia, who dove behind the counter in the far corner as the weapon went off. Miraculously, Ilyanov _and _Keele were spared the shrapnel – The Jackals weren't but now they had bigger problems. A brute had followed, a Type-25 Carbine, or Spiker, in its massive hand, the curved blades glistening wetly. It came forth, its heavy blue-coloured armour covering nearly its entire body, its head and face covered by an ornate headdress. It was evidently of high rank. Two of its low-rank buddies followed it in, their bodies only partially covered by the blue-tinged plate armour. They carrier plasma rifles of red chrome.

Keele muttered into his comm..

"God damn it, Palmer I need backup now, _now_!" he terminated the link and hefted the rifle.

Cpl Ferris got the call as he heard the distinctive noise of the explosion. He was in the Carpet Store with Pvt Sureno and PFC Beck. The Store was shot up badly, reams of burning carpets giving off a foul-smelling smoke that was choking off the ceiling, forcing them to crouch beneath it. He struggled to hear the communication from the Lieutenant in his ear as more enemy fire splashed inside. A burning fleck of it, miniscule, splattered his cheek and he yelled in pain and leapt back so fast his helmet slipped back on his head. He splashed the dispersing solution from the aid kit that was luckily by his feet, just in time for a lull in the fire to allow him to hear. Only the machine-gun in the support nest never stopped, its heat-dissipating tech pretty high-end. He realised they must be firing on a flanking threat, meaning they would not be safe in their position for long. At first he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Say again, LT, say again!" he called into the receiver at his lips.

"_I said get your ass into the clothing store! Keele needs backup! Do it, Marine!"_ the LT's voice crackled so loud in his ear he knew the man must be screaming.

He clapped Sureno on the shoulder and made a 'with me' gesture. The Marine nodded.

"Cover us, Beck. Make like a fire team." He said to the remaining trooper, PFC Louise Beck. She nodded smartly, her ice-blue eyes glittering determinedly from between narrowed lids. She laid fire out of the window, screaming wordlessly as he and Sureno made for the back door. The door slid open after a moment and he poked his head out into the street. The multiple contacts on the rooftops of the North road paid no notice to his left, engaged in a fierce firefight with the support nest. He jerked his head in the direction of the back door of the clothing store, and then dashed over, Sureno close behind. It sounded like hell in a snowglobe was happening inside. He held up three fingers to Sureno, taking the left side of the door while he took the right. He counted three seconds, lowering a finger each time. Then he hit the door control and the flat metal panel slid into the frame. He went in first, rifle up, Sureno close behind. They fanned left and right, spotting the trio of Brutes and swallowing as they realised the bigger of the three in the centre, with the headdress, had to be one mean motherfucker.

Nevertheless, they opened up. At this range, auto-fire was their friend, and the bullets hit the shields, ricocheting and flattening. Keele was on one knee, and the battle-drunk Brutes were firing wildly, no real aiming involved, though he could tell they had hit Sureno. The man fell to his knees, gurgling. Blood poured from his mouth and the spike in his chest. Garcia on the right, Keele on the left, Ferris in the middle. One Brute screamed and went down as his shields failed and he was riddled with bullets in the neck and head. The one on the left lunged for Garcia who ducked, and in a ballsy move, primed a captured plasma grenade and under-armed it onto the Brute's, well, balls. It roared in anger and detonated, splashing the walls, counter, and Garcia with its insides.

The middle one's shields held. Screaming a demonic battlecry, it leapt straight for him. Deploying a sticklike device to the ground as it did so, dropping it from its belt.

A great-half-sphere of yellow-white energy as tall as the ceiling sprang up as it leapt, and rounds refused to penetrate it. It had come up just in time, for the last few rounds forced its shields to fail.

_Oh shit!_ Leapt to mind as it leapt at him, swinging the twin blades on the Spiker towards his face, over-hand. He instinctively tried to block with his rifle, but the sheer weight and force of the Brute's blow split the rifle in two, rendering it useless. The halves fell from his grip as he was thrown against the wall. Better, he supposed, than being split into two himself.

But he had brought himself only a temporary reprieve. The beast stepped forward freakishly fast, and brought the weapon up to strike again. At which point a rifle-less Keele slammed into his side, combat knife drawn, and…

Bounced off its armour and bulk, winding up on his ass in the bubble with them.

The Brute chuckled at the stunned ODST and raised the weapon to shoot him, and at that moment, Garcia spectacularly failed to intervene as well, rushing the creature in the bubble, but simply being struck aside. He knocked his helmeted head on the counter, splintering its edge with the force of his impact. The helmet was nothing, of course, if a Brute hit you. He fell to the floor unmoving. It was all the distraction Keele needed to jam the laser-sharpened combat knife into the space between the two segments of its armour greaves, trying for the femoral artery, though he knew not if the physiology was anything at all like humans. Still, the blade stung it, stung it enough for it to bellow in pain and reach for the hilt.

Ferris reacted now, though he was dizzy as hell from the impact. He drew his M6C and started to punch rounds into its belly, just beneath the edge breast-plate. It howled at the three-sided, frustrating, and painful attack, and then Keele retrieved his blade, drawing forth spurting arterial gore. Physiology saved the day. The Brute started to look woozy. The deployed anti-ballistic shield popped into nothingness. Keele reached up and slammed the blade into its throat, up through the jaw and into its brain. It shuddered, the weapon dropping from its fingers, and then fell to its knees, slumping back into a sitting position, where its weight came to rest.

Garcia started to push himself up and saw flashing chrome in the breach in the wall. He grabbed his rifle and crawled to the doorway, firing at enemy Grunts, who had evidently been waiting for their leaders to clear the room. Three died.

Outside, Palmer saw, the Grunts were wavering, and the Jackals were trying to steady them, but there were few Brutes left, and the Jackals had not the same terrifying authority. He relished it.

"A few more of 'em Marines! Kill a few more!" he bellowed into the unit-wide comm. frequency.

Larue had not an earthly idea who was fighting up ahead. He looked back at Kagiso, who looked just as confused. Hammond was the one that voiced what they were all thinking. Except perhaps Tanner, who had slipped into delirium again and probably thought he was in a holovid.

"Come on, for God's sake! Hustle up!"

The sound was not a click away. They continued to beat feet, the possibility of friendlies lending them new reserves of stamina.

There were perhaps a half-dozen Grunts on the north rooftops now, with four dead. Another four Jackals had bought the farm under the MG fire, but the parapets were just the right height for the more diminutive Covenant soldiers to hide. Newly expressed his frustration with this with a heartfelt expletive while he rattled off the last of his ammunition belt.

The moment he had a grenade lobbed from the Brute Chieftan's Brute Shot hit the tripod-mounted weapon and smashed it asunder, though it had been aimed for Newly. He was simply thrown to the floor, his face and BDUs, in fact anything not covered by his body armour, peppered with microshrapnel. He found himself lying on his back, his ears ringing, staring into Alejandro's sole remaining eye, glassy and devoid of life, catching the light from the battle below. It all seemed so distant now. He tried to sit up, his hand clamped at a cramp in his side.

Ah. Not just microshrapnel after all. His pulse pounded in his ears, making his head hurt. He looked for Alejandro's rifle. He would tag the great golden bastard back. He gripped it, pain searing through his body beginning in his side. The long black barrel in his left hand. He removed his right from his injury and tried his best to bring the scope to his eye while lying uncomfortably half on his side, half on his front. He managed it. The scope had a little blood on it, but he could see well enough for this. How could he manage _not _to see the beast that stood on the opposite rooftop, laughing its ugly laugh. He rested the barrel of the S2AM on the lip of the hole in the wall ripped by the Wraith tank. He wondered vaguely if it was still operational.

He hoped not.

He pressed his finger to the trigger, drew a bead on the bastard as he was aiming his huge weapon of needless overkill at one of the strongpoints below.

_What was it Al always said? Squeeze the trigger, don't pull. Exhale as you shoot._

He was finding breathing a little hard anyway. He pulled the trigger, the weapon bucking against his shoulder, nearly knocking him onto his back. The Brute's head snapped back in the closeness of the scope. He settled in again now the shield was weak. It was looking around for the shooter.

"Look at me." Newly muttered. "Look into my eyes when I kill you."

Its eyes found his. The perfect way to do it. The perfect way. Vengeance, and then death.

He felt tears in his eyes. He had so wanted to see Belinda again.

The second round exploded from the barrel and took the Chieftan's head apart. His followers, as one, screamed in terror.

Newly rolled onto his back, finally. The jagged stump of tripod between his ribs hurt no more. He stared up at the sky, the roiling sky, billowing black smoke and hellish orange and distant velvet-blue.

_Quite beautiful in a way. Such a fucking shame it's produced by something so awful._

Then he was dead.

They were running. They were breaking and running and he didn't know why but God strike them down they were running and that was good enough for Palmer. The Grunts in open rout, screaming and fleeing, the Jackals withdrawing in considerably better order. Even over the north rooftops they were retreating. The couple of surviving low-level Brutes charged, bellowing their courage, and were cut savagely down by the surviving Marines. He could hear no triumphant yelling, no joy in the victory, and he wondered how few were left of the unit he had loved so much. He felt his eyes water but he wiped them with a bloodied sleeve. He staggered to his feet, and looked for Moreaux. He too was alive, slouched by the shot-up storefront, looking out on the bodies and the sparking wreckage of the Covenant convoy.

He slapped a hand on his shoulder, and the Marine stared up at him, unrecognising, then turned back to look out the window.

He stumbled clear of the unidentifiable store in which he had been stationed, and fell to his knees in the cratered, body and debris-choked centre of the crossroads. He looked for his comm. set at his lips but it was gone, all that remained a stub of half-melted plastic protruding from his earpiece. He ripped it clear and tossed it aside, and decided he would do it the old fashioned way.

"Get out here. Bring the wounded. S-sound off." He stuttered, his voice hoarse from all the shouting that was commonly necessary in a battle.

Moreaux emerged from behind him, weaponless. He gripped his arm and helped him up. From the Carpet Store came Sureno, looking far better than he expected he did. From the Carpenter's roof, he saw Collins wave his acquiescence, his assault rifle cradled in the crook of his other arm. He watched as he hauled the German, Weber, to his feet. Weber was limping a little.

PFC Cruz fell through the front window of the Carpenter's shop, into broken glass, but nonetheless, he got to his feet and joined the growing huddle in the crossroads' centre.

Keele, at long-last, emerged from the clothing store supporting Ferris, who did not appear to be outwardly injured. He sat the Corporal down and then disappeared back inside. Then he and a concussed-looking Garcia emerged into the night, carrying a badly injured, but breathing, Ilyanov between them. Nobody sounded off, and so Palmer did a head-count. Able-bodied were himself, Moreaux, Keele, Collins, Sureno, Garcia, likely Weber, and possibly Ferris, once he had rested up a little; also, there was Cruz, newly emerged. That made nine. Ilyanov made ten survivors of nineteen men. Nine dead, one wounded. Just worse than fifty percent casualties. He tried not to think of the dead.

He ordered Cruz and Moreaux to count the enemy dead. He detailed Garcia and Sureno, Collins and Weber to gather their own dead in the carpenters.

Twenty-nine dead Covenant Grunts, as well as fourteen Jackals and ten Brutes, not counting fish-in-a-barrel vehicle crews, really didn't seem worth it. The armoured units were a big achievement in some respects, but they had been sitting ducks for the prepared ambush in these narrow streets, barely wide enough to fit a Wraith in, let alone have it manoeuvre. The Ghosts couldn't hit rooftop targets.

He stopped selling short the accomplishment. That did no honour to the heroic dead.

He was facing along the east road in a daze when he saw them. Contacts, humanoid contacts in the distance. He hit Keele on the shoulder, who sat next to him on a chunk of masonry, and pointed. Keele shouted for everybody to take cover, and then got out the remarkably intact fieldscope he carried in his webbing.

"I'll be damned." He said, and handed the Lieutenant the fieldscope. "Small world." He continued.

The Lieutenant wondered who he was looking at. It was several police officers half-dragging, half-carrying a wounded Marine. And at their lead, was another ODST.

"That's Larue." Keele stated matter-of-factly as though he had read Palmer's mind. The ragged file of battered troops approached a battered group of other battered troops who now emerged from the decimated crossroads, assured that they were not the enemy by Gunnery Sergeant Keele. Keele walked to meet them, bemused, weary, but none the less happy to see a squadmate he had presumed dead for that. A small world indeed.


End file.
